


Bah, Humbug...A Mystrade Valentine

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:28:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's mushy. It's fluffy. It's probably going to do bad things to your insulin resistance.</p><p>But it could be worse. After all, Mycroft and Lestrade don't do Valentine's Day. </p><p>Really.  XD</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bah, Humbug...A Mystrade Valentine

They didn’t do Valentine’s Day. Lestrade said it was against his religion—that as an Anglo-Orthodox Bloke he’d be drummed out of his local pub if he fell into sin and error. Mycroft made a moue of distaste and suggested that sentiment was bad enough, and that ritualized, commercialized sentiment was rather like the detritus goldfish left at the bottom of the tank: good only for fertilizer. Neither man was comfortable or at ease with the notion of roses or chocolates or love notes or date nights—especially not as members of the madding crowds.

They were adult men with serious callings. There was no room for Valentine’s Day in their lives, or in any of the roles they played. Whether as a “minor member of the government,” or as the legendary, mysterious _éminence grise_ who _was_ the government—and much, much more--candy hearts and humorous cards were out of place, out of character, and out of all possibility so far as Mycroft was concerned. Whether as a seasoned DI with the Met, or as a far less known undercover liaison between MI5 and MI6’s London anti-terrorist divisions, Lestrade had too much on his plate to indulge in that sort of fussy, frivolous game playing.

No roses. No violins. (Not even a composition from Sherlock, as there were things even Sherlock didn’t know…) No matching dinner jackets. No waltzes in private little venues, where two men of a certain age and dignity dancing together might pass without notice.

“You don’t know how lucky you are you’re single,” said Gregson, at the Met. “She’s been priming me for weeks, like a kid before Christmas. She’s going to expect chocolates, and dinner, and a card, and some kind of jewelry, and love-talk, and a chick-flick, and then fantasy sex afterward.”

“Fantasy sex?” Lestrade asked.

Gregson rolled his eyes. “You know. Hours and hours of sweet-talk and lying around not doing much.”

“He means ‘foreplay,’” Donovan drawled. “Apparently something Gregson only trots out for special occasions, and then only under duress.”

Lestrade fought back a chuckle. “It’s a guy-thing,” he assured Donovan with a straight face. “All that love-dovey stuff? It makes our cocks fall off. Little known medical fact. Got to limit exposure, right?” He winked at her, and she played along, going wide-eyed as Shirley Temple.

“Really? God! Good to know! So that’s why sex with married men is so boring? They’re rationing it?”

“Exactly,” Lestrade said. “Stick to single men. They hardly ever get any, and when they do they can afford to invest without running the same risk.”

Gregson scowled at them both. “Lestrade, you traitor. You used to be married. You know what it’s like.”

Lestrade grinned back at him, but it wasn’t as gentle as it might be. “I know if you ration it, Gregson, they’ll look for it somewhere else—and who can blame ‘em?”

Gregson went crimson. Everyone knew how Lestrade’s marriage had broken up. He gulped. “Sorry. Didn’t mean…”

“I know you didn’t. But for God’s sake, man, wise up. If you’re not giving you’ve got no place expecting to get back, y’know? And if you don’t get back what you put in, at least you know you were doing the best you could.”

Gregson made a sour face, muttered something about having paperwork to do, and stumped off.

“It really does hit some men like a trip to the dentist, doesn’t it?” Donovan said. “You’d think one day of cards and sweet-talk was a pretty small payback for a year of letting him off the hook on any kind of romance at all.”

Lestrade didn’t look at her, but said, softly, “It’s not like that, Sally. A lot of the time it’s that a guy’s romantic all the time…but no one notices.”

She cleared her throat, then, uneasy. “Were you…?”

He looked up, and gave a little smile. “Probably the wrong question to ask your boss. But—if you’re ever married? Just remember, just because it doesn’t come with chocolates, a card with roses on it, and a pair of pearl earrings doesn’t mean it wasn’t romance.”

“I see,” she said--but he knew she didn’t.

***

“He wants me to wear the heels,” Anthea said, sourly. “Those damned six-inch things. I twisted my ankle the last time I wore those heels for him.”

“Why do you do this to yourself?” Mycroft grumbled. He had a very low opinion of Anthea’s current squeeze. “You’re more than sufficient--even in combat gear and hip waders. I know. I’ve seen you that way.”

Anthea rolled her eyes. She was among the very few so close to Mycroft Holmes that ideas like “private life” lost their meaning between them. Of necessity she knew virtually everything about him, and he similarly knew everything about her. “You’re not exactly on the right team to have an opinion, Mr. Holmes. If nothing else, you don’t need me to look…girly.”

He quirked an eyebrow and failed to suppress a grin. “I grant you, it’s among my less prominent character traits. Not that you don’t clean up beautifully, mind you. You polish so bright it’s blinding. But, no—it’s not something I spend much time considering.”

She smirked. “Mmmm. I’d need silver hair and a tush defined by hours on the footy-field to catch your attention that way.” She sighed. “Which, I have to admit, wouldn’t be a bad choice. Nicer than six-inch heels.”

“He asked for them explicitly?” Mycroft said.

“Apparently they’re fantasy fodder.”

“You can’t limit their appearance to five minutes in the bedroom before kicking them off and leaping passionately onto the bed together?”

“I should be so lucky.” She sighed. “I don’t know, Mr. Holmes. It’s Valentine’s Day. It doesn’t seem like it’s that much for him to ask. I just…”

“Hate it.”

She nodded. “It’s one thing wearing those things for work. I think of them as weapons deployed against the enemy: six inches of steel stiletto arrayed against the fragile lusts of the misogynistic vanguards of lawlessness, corruption, and anti-English sentiment.” She perked up. “When I think of them that way I can even get a bit excited about shoving my feet in those bad boys and strapping ‘em down firm. But I can’t say I really wanted to think of my boyfriend on those terms.”

“The only way you should think of him, if you ask me,” Mycroft grumbled. “He may not be one of the highest ranking demons in the infernal pantheon, but he’s at the very least a minor fiend. You’re a Double-0 agent, my dear: armed and dangerous. Make him take it seriously.”

“He doesn’t like being reminded. Says it's emasculating.”

Mycroft hissed. “Allow me to sharpen your stilettos for you, my dear. And while I’m at it, add titanium spikes and damascene blades. And then show him just how high you kick.”

She frowned. “You really don’t approve, do you?”

“I think he’s a pitiful alley cat attempting to dominate a jungle tigress. It’s wrong, my dear.”

“But—not even for Valentine’s Day?”

“Find someone whose idea of a perfect Valentine’s Day is coming home to you, regardless of what shoes you wear.Then wear the damned shoes to surprise him, not because he’s making it a condition of his arousal.”

One corner of her mouth quirked up. “You’ve tried and tested the theory?”

“So far I haven’t had to,” he sniffed. “So far _my_ sweetheart’s primary costuming concern is how to get me out of my clothes, not into any particular fetish-wear.”

She laughed. “Enthusiasm’s hard to beat.”

“Exactly.” He looked at her. “Oh, pamper your fool for Valentine’s—and then dump him at your front door. Leave him dreaming about what he almost had, and find someone better.”

“You think I can?”

The look he gave her was eloquent. “You’re _my_ protégé. I assure you, he’s not even good enough to open the door for you. If you like I’ll do a search. Really, my dear, aim high…whether you’re spiking an enemy with your stilettos, aiming at a long-shot, or looking for a lover, you just can’t go wrong aiming high.”

She smiled, then. “You know a lot of people would think you aimed low, don’t you?”

Mycroft sighed. “That’s only because their priorities are upside down, Anthea. You know him: did I pull him up from the muck? Or pull him down from the stars?”

“No question: heavenly origins.” She couldn't help grinning. Lestrade was indeed stellar.

“Isn't he?” He said it with delight; then, as though sharing a profound secret, said, “I got lucky, didn’t I?”

“The luckiest, sir,” she said, and left, thinking how much she adored the bashful little grin he got when he talked about Lestrade.

***

They didn’t do Valentine’s Day. They were sober, sensible men, both uneasy with sentiment. Neither was likely to buy a card with lace and angel wings, or bouquets of roses, or chocolates in heart shaped boxes, or expensive jewelry neither would wear. While both could speak with power and passion, neither found it easy to venture into the realm of love poetry.

When Mycroft got home, though, it was to a house already lit and warm, with the kettle heating, the tea service set out, and the tea caddy filled with his favorite estate Assam waiting. When Lestrade came into the kitchen from his home office, it was to find Mycroft already preparing the tea, laying out his favorite Eccles cakes on the simple, sensible blue and white plate he liked. Mycroft’s eyes lit, seeing his lover wearing the worn blue flannel shirt that seemed to beg to be touched. Lestrade smiled, as Mycroft put on their favorite music.

While it wasn’t a particularly interesting topic, Lestrade listened to Mycroft spend two hours explaining the economic balances at play in his current project in the Middle East. Mycroft, in return, gave Lestrade’s most recent case serious consideration, suggesting several unexpected links between suspects, and offering a novel theory of how the crime had been committed…and, unlike Sherlock, he didn’t complain that it was dull, or ordinary, or boring, even though Lestrade himself thought it was.

And if they didn’t spend hours on foreplay or romance, well—when Lestrade leaned close and said, “Yeah. Smile like that again…,” and Mycroft chuckled, and backed Lestrade up against the closet door and snogged him once for practice, a second time for principle, and a third time “because I lost count,” it seemed to work quite as well.

That night, as they lay drowsing together, Mycroft said, “I’m so glad we don’t do Valentine’s Day!” He gripped Lestrade’s hand firmly, and gave a contented little squiggle. And Lestrade, curled close with his arm over Mycroft’s waist and his knees spooned behind his lover’s, murmured back, “Yes, Myc. I love you, too.”

 


End file.
